


Wrought Iron

by th3rm0pyl43



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: (yes I'm a massive hypocrite ahahaha), Anal Sex, Even The Guys Want Him, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Oh No He's Hot, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Slow Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing, buff!Veers, from long-time crush to acute thirst, good-natured gossip, hierarchy reversal, pulling rank for sexytimes, sex tapes except they're not, soldiers ogling their CO, space cuirassier body appreciation, squishy!Piett, stop making me type 'sex' kthx, totally not promotion of a healthy lifestyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3rm0pyl43/pseuds/th3rm0pyl43
Summary: Most Imperial Army personnel name good old classic push-ups as their favorite way of staying in shape. Maximilian Veers, however, prefers a finer art.





	1. Behind the Curtain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EustaceS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EustaceS/gifts).



> Kudos goes to Eisenschrott for giving me the courage to write smut even though I'd gotten pretty rusty at it, and major kudos to eustacefrog on tumblr for providing 99% of the inspiration which brought this fic to life! Y'all are awesome! <3

Savoring the last bite of today's lunch menu, it crossed Admiral Firmus Piett’s mind that this day was not shaping up to be as bad as it had looked on an empty stomach. A juicy nerf steak, along with a glass of red wine, had done well to wash away at least some of the morning’s worries - ever-growing piles of Navy bumf, conferences requiring setup and mouse droids delivering report upon report, complete with His Lordship quite literally breathing down the admiral’s neck.

Now he sat in one of the numerous mess halls scattered across the _Executor_ and sipped his wine, eyes wandering across the bustle of guests. Most of them were Navy, designated by their drab bluish-olive uniforms, though he could spot a handful of Army personnel in their green-grey garb, some Stormtrooper Corps officers in black, numerous Security Bureau supervisors in white and a few Press Corps agents in blue as well. An entire table manned exclusively by groundpounders, not far from his spot, caught Piett’s attention in particular; they were somewhat loud even against the backdrop of lunchtime chatter, loud enough that their apparent excitement over some matter was obvious to anyone bothering to listen. The admiral thought he could make out a green and silver insignia - Blizzard Force, perhaps? - on the patches adorning their shoulders, though he was not quite certain.

Piett downed the rest of his wine, taking a moment to relish its light, somewhat sweet taste. It was a modest Corellian brand, if he recalled the holographic menu correctly, none too prestigious but fine nevertheless.

Just like himself, he thought. Born far from the bright center of the galaxy, yet in charge of the greatest warship to ever sail the stars.

The admiral sighed contently to himself. He shifted on his seat to pick up his tray and return it but froze as the groundpounders’ incessant chatter caught his attention in all manner of wrong ways.

“...brand new, ten creds says you all haven’t seen this one yet!” a woman boasted. “And it’s damn good too. Didn’t keep me waiting to go down the hyperlane…”

The rest was drowned out by bashful giggling from multiple sources.

Piett threw a glance in their direction. He would have dismissed it as mere banter among close friends, had a man not muttered something that sparked his curiosity.

“Huh. Never would’ve thought Iron Max had this in him.”

The admiral promptly felt glad that his glass was empty, for otherwise he might have choked on the wine. Some kind of document pertinent to a figurative hyperlane - he knew well how obvious a euphemism it was - and apparently concerning the one and only ‘Iron Max’ Veers could mean nothing good.

Acting on sheer instinct, he rose from his seat to stride over to the soldiers’ table and firmly planted himself in their plain view.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”

All seven of them - two men and five women, all bearing the insignia of Blizzard Force on their shoulders - immediately went deadly quiet. After a moment’s hesitation, they returned the greeting with curt nods.

Piett scanned them with narrowed eyes. His gaze lingered on a blonde-haired sergeant in service black who held a small glinting object in hands - a data disc. _There_ was his little braggart.

He addressed her sharply.

“Sergeant.”

She swallowed.

“Sir?”

“A word.”

He led the way to a quiet spot behind a wall in the middle of the mess hall, which had been explicitly designed to be an eye within the storm of the guests’ relentless chatter. The sergeant rose, nearly knocking over her chair, and trotted behind him, pocketing the data disc.

Piett awaited her with his hands twined behind his back. As she came to a halt three paces in front of him, snapping to attention and saluting stiffly, he regarded her with an ice-cold glower.

“I understand that there is a… _document_ of rather delicate nature pertinent to General Veers.”

Her eyes flicked left and right.

“Can you tell me what it is, Sergeant?”

She briefly looked down at the floor as if to muster her courage, then lifted her gaze back to the admiral.

“It’s a recording, sir” she responded, her voice too shaky to pass as truthful, were she indeed telling a lie.

“Of what?”

The sergeant hesitated yet again.

“Physical training” she then said bluntly. “For instruction purposes.”

Piett hummed. It was almost too easy.

“Is there a practical presentation scheduled on the subject?”

“Yessir, tonight at 2030, in hall fourteen of the sports facility on deck two-eight-six, but..."

She trailed off, and the admiral’s expression darkened just a little.

" _But_?"

"Well... you'd just scare everyone off, sir, like you're making me all antsy right now. Shall I ask folks to stay away tonight?"

His first instinct was to snap _no, let them learn a lesson in privacy,_ but then it occurred to him that there might not be as many unpleasant questions to answer if it was just him and _him_ in the room.

“Yes, see to it that you do” he said icily. “I will investigate this matter myself. Now, hand over this _recording_ which you were so boastful of possessing.”

She wetted her lips, hesitating, then reached under her tunic to produce the data disc.

"Here, sir. I can't possibly imagine what’s there to do with the vid, aside from watching it, of course, but - but that's none of my business. Sir."

Piett had to restrain himself as not to snatch it from her fingers, holding out a palm for her to drop the silver disc into instead.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant" he told her, closing his hand firmly around the disc and holding it close to his chest. "You may return to your comrades. Good day."

She snapped to attention with an impeccable salute.

"Good day, Admiral, sir!"

Piett nodded curtly at her, pocketed the data disc, turned on his heel and left the mess hall without another word. The sergeant threw a glance after him before she returned to her fellow groundpounders’ table, where she was greeted with shock and smirks alike as she flopped back down on her seat.

“Shucks, I can’t believe he’s on to us!” an Armored Cavalry pilot piped up with mock indignation, then wrinkled her nose in genuine distaste. “Now we’ve got _Cold Sweat_ of all vac-heads try’na hit on the boss. Who’s this diminutive Navy stinko think he is?”

Silence followed, accompanied by half gaping, half grinning faces and broken by someone nearly spilling their drink. The sergeant exchanged a glance with the artillery officer sitting next to her.

“Are you sayin’... no. Don’t tell me the admiral’s got the hots for Iron Max, too.”

The pilot burst out snickering. Her response was muffled as she reached up to cover her mouth, chortling in a rather undignified manner.

“Ivera, mah girl, have ya _looked_ at the man? He’s kriffin’ hooked! I would’na be surprised if he snuck into the gym tonight… not that it’d be hard with how tiny he is.”

She shook her head minutely, throwing a glance over her friend’s shoulder to where Piett had sat and had his lunch.

“Betcha the boss wouldn’t even notice ‘em from up there… hey, he even forgot his tray on the table, he’s that distracted. Don’t tell me I didn’t tell ya so, buckethead.”

Ivera had covered her face with both her hands.

“Stars above... Illys, I need to buy you a drink.”


	2. Solo Act

For the third time within ten minutes, it occurred to Admiral Piett that the turbolifts zipping through his Fierce Lady’s bowels were _too bloody slow_.

Anxious to return to the solitude of his quarters, his gaze fixed on the navigational display as he leaned backwards against a wall, he was glad to be alone in the lift’s cabin. Otherwise people would find it strange that the admiral of Death Squadron was wracking his brain as to what could possibly be contained on that data disc the soldiers of Blizzard Force made such a fuss about.

 _Could be delicate information_ , Piett mused grimly. _Could be a scandalous confession. Could be something incriminating. Could be stuff to blackmail someone with._

He palmed the small disc in his pocket.

_Hells, it could even be a sex tape. How about that…_

Shaking his head, he pushed that thought back into the shady corner it had crawled out of. Whatever was on the data disc, he _had_ to take a look at it.

It took the turbolift long enough to arrive at the deck the admiral’s quarters were located on. Piett wasted no time in traversing the refreshingly empty corridors, entering his office and locking the door behind him. He would allow nothing short of a dire emergency to disturb him now.

“Terminal on!” he called, and the computer built into his desk sprang to life, its display adding a blue hue to the ceiling diodes’ cold light.

Taking a seat, he produced the data disc and inserted it into a slot connected to the holoprojector.

The disc contained just one holovid file named _IMV_0024_. Piett selected it for playback, bracing himself for the most unsightly of sights, then gingerly pressed 'play' - and had to slam his hand on the 'pause' button after no more than half a minute, for in a matter of seconds, he had gone red as a blaster bolt, a familiar twinge had settled in his stomach and his trousers were already getting rather snug. He swore wildly under his breath as he stared at the hologram, feeling his pulse accelerate and his mouth go dry.

To a mind solely inclined towards the arts, the pale blue projection looked innocuous enough. It was a slightly blurry silent recording of a powerfully built man dressed in form-fitting dark sportswear, hanging in mid-air tangled in a brightly colored rope and apparently dancing what Piett could only describe as a heated, passionate tango with gravity. He failed to tear his gaze off the static image; the man caught on tape looked rather clumsy in regard to his sheer muscle-bound bulk, yet the smooth, graceful movements the holocam had captured made it obvious that his body was _very_ flexible. A few seconds of squinting revealed the man’s face to be quite familiar, too, as if this work of art was not already intriguing enough.

The admiral's cheeks burned with both arousal and outright shame - here he was, getting all flustered at what he'd suspected to be some kind of blackmail material. Worse yet, the greater part of him could hardly believe that who he was looking at was no other than Major General 'Iron Max' Veers, the closest thing he had to a friend on this bustling beehive of a starship. Frankly, he had presumed the armored assault expert to favor classic push-ups like a simple-minded soldier would. Not that he had ever wasted a thought as to how exactly the groundpounder preferred to tire himself out on a regular basis.

 _Why, silly, of course he doesn't_ , a voice at the back of Piett's mind snickered with twisted glee.

 _Generals aren't simple-minded, you great lovable Navy tosspot,_ a second voice chimed in in a gruff tone, sounding an awful lot like Veers himself.

 _Fine arts for lucid souls,_ a third remarked sagely.

The admiral reached out to shut off the holoprojector but quickly lowered his hands as he found that they were shaking.

"Kriffing hells" he grunted, pressing both hands to the desktop and squeezing his eyes shut - to no avail; his racing heartbeat slowed just a little, though the dull, throbbing ache in his crotch did not ease in the least.

_Lovable tosspot, my arse!_

Hissing an entire string of most outrageous Axxilan curses, Piett banged a half-clenched fist on the projector's power button, tore his gloves off, tossed them next to his cap and stumbled into the refresher to slump over the sink. He drew in a shaky breath, not daring to look up at the disheveled mess of a person, not worth even the mass-produced synthwool his uniform was made of, that would have stared back from within the mirror.

 _Alas, how the mighty have fallen_ , the spiteful voice now cackled. _The admiral of Death Squadron, thirsting after a shamelessly attractive dirt-pounding simpleton!_

Piett closed his eyes.

 _Max is no simpleton_ , he thought to himself. _He's seen enough senseless bloodshed to know better than to fight for fighting's sake._

He exhaled sharply and opened the second highest drawer of the dresser next to the sink, reaching inside to feel around for a small tube that had not seen quite as much use lately.

_Perhaps that makes him look like he doesn't understand._

Placing the tube next to the faucet, he unzipped his trousers and pushed them down along with his underpants. The air felt much colder than it was against his hot skin, sending a shudder down his spine and a sting of pain back upward as he discarded his belt as well, shrugged off his tunic and tossed it on the stone-tiled floor.

_Perhaps it makes people think he isn’t worthy of command._

Piett threw a glance in the mirror and grimaced at his reflection in shame. Redder than the _Lady_ ’s stardrives in the face, bare scrawny arms and shoulders peppered with goosebumps, his small form shivering in the Navy-issue grey tank top - it was _him_ who was making himself unworthy of command, what with his entirely ridiculous lusting for a person he called a friend and the all too sudden realization how much he wanted him. It was wrong on so many levels, and yet it felt so _right_ to him, as if gods had meddled just to make it happen.

He grasped the small tube, poured a good portion of lubricant into his right hand and left its container in the sink as he bumbled into the shower with a heavy sigh, propping himself against the wall with his free hand, and finally allowed his whirling thoughts to drift freely.

_Perhaps it makes them think he's lost his luster._

He imagined powerful, sinewy arms embracing him, large hands resting their pleasant weight on his back, pressing him ever so gently to a chiseled chest; a lithe torso twisting and bending with ease, strong and supple muscles rippling smoothly beneath his palms -

_It's not true. Not an iota of it._

Soft lips trailing slowly along his limbs, showering him in kisses where his own hands could not even reach -

Soon he was panting hard, one slick hand clumsily massaging his swollen shaft while the other remained pressed to the wall. A slow smile found its way onto his red-flushed features.

_Max is a good man. Wise, beautiful…_

Dark eyes with their piercing gaze, made gentle with affection even as green lightning struck and carnage came raining from the heavens -

_Cunning, yet true to honor…_

Mighty metal paws crashing down on soil, sending quakes through the ground -

 _He's bloody wonderful_.

Release came swiftly, washing over him like a simmering-hot white wave and tearing free a ragged cry.

His knees went weak and gave way under his weight. Caught up in the warm afterglow, he slumped sideways against the wall where it had not just been stained white, shuddering from head to toe.

He reveled in the heat, giving his length a final caress as he felt it begin to soften again, and dropped his hand to idly stroke his hip. His imagination had proven a great tool once more - and yet it left him longing, hungering for more than just a mental image. Piett knew well that he could not simply keep just _thinking_ about his desire this time, lest it drive him mad with unfulfilled want.

_Ah, kriff._

Mood whiplash hit him like a boot to the head. The realization that the person he was pining for was _way_ out of his league placed an aching knot in his gut, and a sob broke free before he even felt it bubbling up.

 _Kriffing hells! He’s bloody wonderful, and I’m not even remotely worthy of…_ him! _What could a pretentious little vac-head like me possibly have to offer?_

He pressed his cheek to the wall. At least the cool stone tiling did not judge him, unlike the cold iron he longed for-

Piett brought up his clean hand and slapped himself.

_This needs to stop._

He exhaled shakily, turning around to shuffle back to the sink. His feet felt like lumps of lead that stuck to the floor and slowed him down, making him stop and think and see that everything was _wrong_. A sailor was not meant to lust for their Army counterpart, least of all the admiral of Death Squadron with the commander of Blizzard Force. Here in the upper echelons of the Imperial Armed Forces, it was especially vital to keep it all on a strictly professional level.

And yet, as he washed his hands much more thoroughly than necessary and diligently avoided looking in the mirror, Piett found himself agreeing heartily with the old adage that power was an aphrodisiac. The subject of his desire had something attractive about him outside of his martial talent and refined masculine beauty - it was the gleaming rank bars, plain and simple, the admiral had to admit to himself, acutely aware of the stinging pain in his left cheek. An aura of high command, both compelling and stonily neutral, drawing one in, yet keeping its distance.

_What am I even doing?_

He stared into the swirls of water disappearing in the drain.

_I need to tell him._

The thought had barely crossed his mind when the voice of reason cried its protest, calling the notion utterly foolish, if not outright a suicide mission.

Piett shut off the faucet. He threw a glance at the shower and the small splotches of white liquid still trickling down its wall, then undressed, leaving his boots and all of his clothing in a heap on the floor.

 _Thank the stars I’ve got the afternoon off_ , he mused.

He quickly rinsed his hair and body under warm water and splashed the wall with it until it was relatively clean, then wrapped himself in the largest towel available, trotted to his desk and shut off the terminal before flopping down on his bed and crawling under the sheets, curling up into a fetal position.

Piett closed his eyes. It was far from the first time that he’d gotten himself in a jam on entirely his own doing, though it might well be the worst. Him, the man who only had himself to thank for making it this far - lusting after a dirtpounder of all people. Ridiculous.

 _I wonder why it didn’t hit me earlier_ , he thought dryly, sighing through his nose, and drew his knees a little closer to his face as his imagination helpfully supplied the image of a tightly clenched fist slamming into a punching bag with tremendous force - a fist clad in protective hand wraps, attached to a bare sinewy forearm, thickly muscled and lined with thin blue veins -

Piett found himself chuckling quietly, a silly smile on his face and a warm weight in his stomach. He simply could not help it. As his mind wandered further, he felt the throb of his heartbeat drumming slowly against his thighs.

He imagined the chiseled face that adorned many a HoloNet headline looking down at him, its dark eyes soft and the wide mouth whispering affectionate nonsense with its otherwise steel-edged voice. What would it feel like to draw the man into an embrace and hold him close, to kiss him tenderly, parting just to gasp in a lungful of air? What would his skin feel like? Soft, still holding a lingering heat from exertion and the shower - or rough with hairs standing on end, crisscrossed with scars, made calloused by old wounds?

The sailor curled up tighter, a pleasant shudder running down his spine. Before long, he fell into a deep sleep, graced with the sweetest dreams he’d had in months.


	3. Under the Spotlight

The chrono read 20:46 when Admiral Firmus Piett stepped out of the refresher in his quarters, fully dressed, impeccably shaved and combed and leaving a trail of a flowery scent behind him as he strode across the room, adjusting his cap.

He stopped near the door that led out onto the corridor and went through a mental list of things he had wanted to take care of before leaving for Hall 14 on Deck 286. _Very_ thorough basic hygiene, check. Shaving his body, check. A freshly laundered, well-ironed uniform, check. The silver data disc safely tucked away in his pocket, check. A whiff of a decent Naboo flower perfume, check.

Throwing a last scrutinizing glance down at himself and finding everything in order, the admiral left his quarters. The halls outside were only sparsely populated and so was the turbolift Piett took, which did a lot to ease the doubts silently gnawing at him.

There was the nagging voice in the back of his head, of course, insisting that going to see Veers and asking him out in a highly questionable manner was inherently a bad idea and that this entire maneuver was doomed to fail anyway.

 _What if he sees nothing in you but a friend?_ it wondered aloud. _What if he never even saw you as a friend at all? What if he doesn’t think you’re worth it? What if he’s taken? What if he’s not into men?_

Piett’s jaw tightened, and he was grateful that none of the four technicians he shared the turbolift with were looking at him.

 _He_ is _my friend,_ he reassured himself. _If he didn’t think I was worth caring about, he wouldn’t do it all the kriffing time. Widowers tend to stay single… and he swings both ways. It’s in his file. I checked._

What he wasn’t quite certain about was the _perfume_ of all things. Not the exact location of the sports hall, not the general’s reaction to being made a blatantly authority-infused pass at. Why was he wearing the bloody stuff in the first place? It wasn’t like he had to _impress_ that shamelessly attractive dirt-pounding brute - more like seduce him and-

The admiral stuffed that thought back down the figurative garbage chute. This was one of the situations in which overthinking wouldn’t help him in the least.

The turbolift’s arrival, mercifully, made him focus on where he was going.

“ _Deck two-eight-six_ ” an androgynous synthetic voice announced cheerfully, almost infuriatingly so. “ _Have_ _a_ _pleasant_ _day_.”

 _You wish_ , Piett mused sourly. _Stupid thing killed the mood. Just swell._

He quickly stepped out of the lift as soon as its doors were open, put some distance between it and himself and looked around, finding himself at a T-junction. Two holograms next to each other on the opposite wall read _Halls 01-08_ and _Halls 09-16_ in crisp blue Aurebesh above sleek arrows respectively pointing to the left and right.

Piett took the right turn and counted the numbers as he walked down the corridor unhurriedly. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.

The door labeled _14_ did not slide open on approach; the security terminal right beside it was in ‘members only’ mode. Its small screen glowed blue, displaying a prompt for a visitor to have their code cylinder scanned.

 _Locked_. _Of course_ , the admiral thought, produced one of his three cylinders and inserted it into the slot on the device, whose screen then turned a bright hue of green and sent the signal for the door to open.

Placing the cylinder back in his breast pocket, he stepped inside.

The gym was much more spacious than he had expected, even for one aboard a ship of the _Executor_ ’s size. Equipment for all manner of sports was set up across the vast central hall, such as an impossible-looking parkour course and high-set crossbars towering above thick mats.

Piett quickly scanned the hall. He counted no more than six visitors working the equipment; they all seemed too absorbed in their activity to pay attention to who came and went, though he had little doubt that at least one of them had seen him out of the corner of their eye.

It did not take long until he spotted what he was looking for - a rope-shaped beacon of red and blue and purple, sticking out like sore a thumb in the black, white and grey that dominated the interior of Imperial warships. He approached the splotch of colors, making his way through the maze of unoccupied training equipment, and found himself a bench to sit down on to watch the spectacle of General ‘Iron Max’ Veers dancing with gravity three meters above the floor, tangled in the glaringly colorful rope.

Hanging only by the grip of his hands, he had just paused to take a few deep, even breaths, his broad chest heaving, and now went ahead and pulled himself up to wrap the rope around his waist, hips and right thigh. He then let go, descended a short distance in a whirl and bent back upward with a quick, precise motion to take hold of the rope, disentangling his lower body in the process, which left him spinning slowly, anchored in place by only one hand.

Each movement of the limbs was deliberate, no matter how loose it might look. Piett could not even begin to imagine what an enormous amount of strength and coordination this required. It did not help in the least that he was definitely not used to seeing the groundpounder out of his uniform, let alone in a black tank top bearing a dark grey Cog on the chest and a pair of form-fitting shorts of the same color. What was left uncovered of Veers’ skin by his outfit was flushed pink and glistened with sweat, only accentuating the shapes of the supple, toned muscles rippling smoothly beneath.

The admiral crossed his legs to hide the warm lump he felt forming between them as his pulse quickened, never taking his eyes off his Army counterpart. Mesmerized, he found himself utterly captivated, and sat there watching him bend this way and that and rise and drop and spin and whirl for stars knew how long - a dance with a force of nature indeed, a show of sheer devotion to the art.

If all life was born from the earth and its riches, then Veers had to be a gleaming diamond - chipped and roughened in some places, perhaps not quite as lustrous as he once had been; yet his body was wrought iron, forged in the ravenous fires of war, every battle a strike of the hammer, adding another mark to the scars already running all too deep.

There was more to his ‘dance’ than mere elegance, of course. He looked weightless, unbound. Like a flock of birds defying gravity as they soared on high winds, Piett thought, or a creature of the sea moving freely beneath the waves. He found no words for the way Veers appeared to move without effort, or for the otherwise strange notion that a man past his prime could still be as limber as he was.

No, scratch that. Veers was _in_ his prime, powerful and lithe, and had the raw vigor and deadly grace of an apex predator. Earthbound battlefields were his domain, the enemy his prey; once he had taken some poor soul into his sights, there was no escape.

Focused on the general, Piett ached with longing. Gracious stars, he wanted him, _needed_ him, needed him now. He was fairly sure that he had never been so infatuated with anyone before, not to mention being attracted to another member of the Imperial armed forces, nevermind someone like Veers; it was a curious feeling of attachment, of an unbreakable certainty that the other deserved to be loved and desired.

He shook himself out of his thoughts. Hadn’t he already spent enough time mulling over this?

Now Veers hung sideways with one hand behind his back and holding on to the rope, the other arm extended and pointing downward. He used the sheer strength of his torso to lift his legs and expertly wrap the rope around his ankles before he let go of it yet again, stretched out his arms to either side like wings, anchored solely by the loop around his ankles, and remained in that position for a few moments. Arching his spine backward in a fluid motion, he then reached towards his feet with both hands.

The motion inevitably made his tank top slide up courtesy of gravity, even though it fit rather tightly around his waist, and Piett’s gaze glued itself to the little bit of exposed skin like a TIE fighter’s targeting reticule to an X-wing’s afterburners. As far as he could see from the smooth gleam of the light on sweat-damp skin, the groundpounder’s abdomen was as flat as the _Lady_ ’s polished floors. Just like he had imagined him.

Piett couldn’t dwell on the pleasant sight much longer. Veers’ torso was bent at a nearly painful-looking angle as he grasped the rope, until he untangled his feet and his lower body came swinging down. He brought one foot forward and used his momentum for a breakneck spin that left him a little closer to solid ground, then held on with only one more hand, spreading his legs in a flawless split, his free arm stretched out to the side.

Holding his position, Veers finally slid down slowly. He came to kneel on the floor, then let go of the rope for good and let himself flop on his side, folding his legs, and simply lay there.

Piett watched him a little longer before noticing that he’d received company in the meantime. A young man had taken up a position close to the bench the admiral had sat down on.

“ _Beautiful”_ he muttered to himself, staring at Veers.

Piett’s mouth was rarely faster than his mind, but the latter was still dazed by what he had just watched.

“Is he all right?” he asked quietly, which earned him a snort from the man next to him.

“Dunnae worry, Admiral, sir. ‘Tis _Iron Max_ we’re talkin’ ‘bout!” he placated him with a grin, his Rimworld accent as thick as Piett’s once had been. “He’s gon’ be jus’ fine like always, just needs tae catch his breath. Not all o’us are young an’ tireless anymore, y’see.”

The admiral nodded, eyes fixed on a stocky dark-skinned woman in sleek grey sportswear who walked up to Veers and slightly bent her knees, holding out both hands.

“Tireless or not, though, he’s still kriffin’ strong. Would’nae ever wanna hafta take a kick to the afterburners from ‘em again, ‘specially not with the boots on. Those heels bloody _hurt_.”

“That’s oddly specific” Piett commented absentmindedly.

The grey-clad woman helped Veers to his feet and then amicably punched him in the shoulder, which he responded to with a vigorous pat on her back, nearly making her keel over too. The young man guffawed out loud.

“Aye, sir, ‘cause it’s true! Had a bit too much Corellian courage one night and asked him if he wanted to spar. Said _you’re obviously drunk, soldier, are you sure?_ , bloody hells, I told ‘em _fight me_! I think I didnae do so bad” he told the Admiral, an even broader grin splitting his face, “but he still wrecked me tae Kessel and back. Really dunnae mean tae brag, sir, but I ain’t lyin’ when I say once Iron Max kicked me arse and it was awesome.”

Piett nodded again. Veers did not seem to taken notice of his presence, which he could hardly believe considering that the admiral was the only person in the entire facility dressed in a uniform rather than sportswear.

Flanked by the woman in grey, the general had set course for the locker rooms. Piett moved to intercept him, planting himself firmly right in their way; he had intended to glare vibroblades at Veers, but even as he stood there with his hands behind his back, he found his façade quickly crumbling, his cheeks newly aflame with desire. Desperately throwing up his deflector shields regardless, he treated the dirtpounder to a sour, scrunched-up expression, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.

 _What am I even doing here?_ sharply flashed through his mind yet again.

“ _General!”_ Piett barked as the man in question was close enough to be addressed clearly. “See me in my office at twenty-one-thirty! Do not tarry!”

The response came with a frown.

“That’s in twenty minutes, Admiral.”

“Was I unclear?”

Veers minutely shook his head.

“No, sir.”

Piett turned on his heel at once, boot soles squeaking, and made a beeline for the exit - all in a perversely dignified manner, of course, marching away with his head held high. Left behind was a bemused-looking dirtpounder.

 _Idiot_ , the admiral chastised himself as he hurried to the nearest refresher. _Idiot, idiot, idiot! What are you doing?_

Fortunately, the room was empty, with not a single of the lights on the stall doors glowing red. Knees going weak, Piett slumped over a sink for the second time that day, this time cursing aloud as his sight grew watery.

Were he still his starry-eyed cadet self, he might have broken down and burst into tears right there.

_What are you doing?_

He lifted his head and glared daggers at his reflection.

“I am doing what’s right” he snarled, smothering that nagging voice at the back of his mind. “I am doing what it takes to make things right.”

Doubt kept mum after that, as if it had just retreated to sulk in a corner. Piett exhaled sharply.

 _Good riddance_.

“I am Admiral Firmus Piett of Death Squadron” he declared to himself, straightening up and squaring his shoulders, slight as they might be. “I will _not_ be deterred by some petty doubts!”

It was somewhat relieving to say it out loud, to speak up against the dark clouds looming on the horizon; yet in that very moment, the thought of finally being able to ask his crush out did not seem comforting in the least. Blast it, Piett wanted nothing more than to skip the agonizingly embarrassing conversations he was going to have to hold and just _be_ with the man, oblivious to all else. The _Executor_ could do a nose dive into the Maw for all he cared, as long as he got to get close enough to Veers to tell him everything - and steal an embrace or a kiss, or perhaps even to be ravished-

He gritted his teeth and scowled at his reflection again.

 _Pathetic_ , the voice whispered. _You’ve done nothing to deserve him_. _You’re just another pile of dirt under his boot._

 _Yes!_ he wanted so badly to shout, _I am dirt! I am Rimworlder garbage! I am more worthless than the scum I’ve left shoveling spice!_ , but only pressed his lips together even more tightly.

His gaze fell on his polished rank bars. The metal gleamed in the cold ‘fresher light, taunting, mocking him - _look at us. We mean nothing._

That was enough. The self-pity turned into anger and swept the doubts away.

“I will _try_!” Piett hissed. “I won’t be afraid!”

He whirled around and marched out of the refresher and towards the nearest turbolifts with a brisk pace, glad that there was hardly anyone out in the corridors at this time. Not that he could truly bring himself to care right now, but he preferred not to be seen by the rank and file in this pitiful, vulnerable state. After all, scuttlebutt had a tendency to be embarrassingly accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 17th is when I'm coming back from the dead for good, I promise. :V


	4. Gravity Tango

The admiral’s antsiness did not ease until the doors to his quarters had slid shut behind him and he had flopped down on his bed, shutting his eyes against the ceiling diodes’ piercing light.

He sighed heavily and felt like taking another shower just to feel warm water on his skin but could not be bothered to move. Sprawled across the covers, he lay still and tried his best to let go and calm himself as he’d learned a long time ago at a Navy academy far away.

Still, something gnawed at him. Not doubt - that little voice was remaining suspiciously silent now - but something that must be some twisted form of giddiness. His hands ached to touch warm skin, his lips tingled at the mere thought of a kiss. He could not wait to indulge his desire.

Piett heaved another sigh. Whirling thoughts would not make time pass any faster, he knew, and yet he couldn’t seem to loosen that thick knot in his stomach. He was both excited to meet his love and dreaded it. What if he was entirely delusional and Veers wasn’t interested in the least? What if -

The admiral’s eyes snapped open and he growled a curse.

 _Stop. Stop thinking about it. Just_ stop _._

Forcing his mind to block out the creeping doubts, he considered ‘warming up’, threw a glance at the chrono on his desk and scrapped that idea right away. 21:26. Not enough time - and as tempting it sounded, getting caught quite literally with his pants down by Veers would do nothing but kill the mood, not to mention the unpleasant questions it would raise.

No, he was going to wait, even though he felt like time had ground to a near-halt - like honey trickling down a surface with agonizing slowness.

 _What am I going to say to him?_ he wondered, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on his thighs. _‘I hereby order you to send me to Wild Space’? No, no, no…_

Piett’s gaze flicked to the chrono again. 21:27.15. He shut his eyes and forced himself to take a shaky but deep breath, then another and a third, and then he already lost count. At least that did something to calm him down when he had all the reasons in the galaxy to stay on his toes.

The next time he looked at the chrono, it read 21:29.38. The admiral rose, ignoring the twinge in his crotch, straightened his tunic and went to stand behind his desk, placing his hands on the chair’s backrest to keep that precious last bit of his dignity in light of his body’s inevitable reaction. He remembered too late that he had left his cap on the bed.

The chime at the door marked Piett’s point of no return. He wetted his lips, cleared his throat and reached forward to press the door release on a control panel in the corner of the desktop.

Striding in came General Veers, looking no different to when he was on duty. Hazel eyes raked over him to try and find a sign that he’d been exercising his backside off just an hour ago; only his greying sand-colored hair was slightly darker than usual - perhaps a bit of leftover wetness from the shower.

Piett unconsciously wetted his lips again. Seeing Veers back in uniform and now standing at attention only fanned the blaze further. Gracious stars, he _wanted_ that rock-hard body beneath the olive drab synthwool, wanted to kiss soft skin and cup the swell of muscle in his hands, touching, _feeling_. His fingertips almost ached with longing.

With a dry mouth, he mustered the effort to school his features into a somewhat neutral expression.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Veers asked crisply.

“I did.”

The admiral felt a droplet of sweat rolling down his temple and heat pooling in his gut. He took a deep breath.

_Improvise, Fir. Say something. Anything that won’t make him turn back around and leave._

“At ease, General. And please drop the formalities for now. This is a social call.”

“Is it?”

Veers’ remark was deadpan, but he did as asked and shifted to stand with his hands behind his back and feet shoulder-width apart. Was that _humor_ seeping into his steel-edged voice?

“You smell like a bouquet of Naboo blossoms, Skipper. Off on a date, if I dare to presume?”

Piett’s hands tightened their grip on the backrest, enough to make his knuckles go white, he was sure.

“General, if you were as clueless as you apparently like to make yourself look, you wouldn’t be standing here” he fired back acidly and vowed to the stars not to regret his next words. “ _This_ is the date.”

The only reaction, or lack thereof, was a blink.

 _Mission abort! Retreat!_ a voice in his head screeched, and the sinking feeling of having missed an absolutely crucial shot settled heavily in his gut. _You messed up. You_ messed _!_ Up _!_

Frozen on the spot with his composure falling apart more quickly than Echo Base had been stormed, he watched helplessly as Iron Max Veers, Death Squadron’s general, Phoenix of Zaloriis, Hero of Hoth, made his way around the admiral’s desk - slowly, agonizingly so, never breaking eye contact, chest puffed up and shoulders squared, muscles bunched, leather-clad fingers trailing lightly along the desktop’s surface.

Piett’s heart thumped at least twice as fast against his ribcage as Veers’ polished jackboots did on the floor. If he did not have a sudden hard-on to cover up, he would have forced himself to let go of the chair, lest his hands go numb, and that was the last thing he wanted now. He felt exposed, like a tooka in landspeeder headlights - as if ten crosshairs were all lining up and preparing to blow his head off.

At the same time, he just could not help gawking with hungry, craving eyes, marveling at Veers’ well-tailored tunic accentuating the breadth of his chest, his belt shamelessly showing off his trim waist and the flatness of his stomach, his sleeves and jodhpurs both unapologetically failing to conceal the great strength of his arms and thighs.

As the general loomed over him, what Piett _did_ muster the courage for was holding his shield-shattering gaze. He then was, in fact, so transfixed on those steely dark eyes that it took him a bit of blinking to notice the sly smirk on the man’s lips.

“And here I thought” Veers mused aloud as it dawned on the flustered sailor in front of him, “that you would never ask, Admiral.”

Piett shakily let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He finally removed his trembling hands from the chair and took a minuscule step towards the groundpounder, ready to throw caution out of the airlock and fling himself into his arms-

“Wait.”

Even through the glove, the tunic and the undershirt, he felt his skin tingle where Veers had just placed his hand to hold him at arm’s length.

“I need to tell you something first.”

He blinked, eyebrows quirking up.

“W-what is it?”

“I want you to know” Veers said hushedly, a blush promptly rising in his cheeks, “that the feeling’s mutual.”

He made to drop his hand, but Piett, no longer acting entirely consciously, caught it by the wrist and gently entwined their fingers.

“You never said a word” he whispered.

“I thought I wouldn’t have to” the general replied and exhaled slowly. “You’re not stupid, Skipper, but with all due respect - some of the more obvious hints I left you went right over your head.”

“They did” Piett conceded, lowering his gaze. “Well... I suppose vac and dirt weren’t listening on the same frequency there. _Again._ ”

When he looked back up a moment later, he was pleasantly surprised to find Veers’ otherwise always so stern features lighting up with a broad, toothy grin. The man ought to smile more often, he thought.

_Stars, he’s beautiful._

“Didn’t leave the snark at the cabin door, did you?”

It warmed his heart immensely that _he_ had put these rosy cheeks and that goofy smile on that handsome face. He brought up the general’s hand and swiftly slipped off and discarded the glove, then placed his lips on its bare knuckles before its owner could get out a single word of protest. Not that he would mind anyway, he was certain.

Veers gasped - softly so, quietly. He reached up with his free hand to touch Piett’s cheek and caress his face; a hot shiver ran down the sailor’s spine at the sensation of smooth leather brushing over his skin.

A small mewl of anticipation escaped him as Veers freed his other hand and pulled him close enough that he could feel his warm breath on his face. Piett grasped at straws by sheer reflex - or rather the broad shoulders conveniently within his reach, good for holding on to with their round shape.

The man they belonged to looked as though he’d fallen into a daze, eyes heavy-lidded as they took in the admiral’s flushed face. The latter waited with his mouth slightly parted.

 _Please, kiss me_ , he begged silently. _Please kiss me and hold me and show me your strength and take me far, far away._

Veers seemed to take the hint at last. He leaned in to close the last of the distance and gently pressed his lips to the sailor’s.

Piett positively melted into the kiss. The dirtpounder’s lips were so soft and warm and _stars above_ , _it felt so good_. He sank into the strong, welcoming arms of Iron Max Veers, and for a precious moment, he forgot the menace in black, forgot the Empire, forgot the war. He was here, held close by the man he loved with all his frolicking heart, and things were finally _right_.

They parted for just a moment to gasp in precious air, then Piett stood on tiptoes and held on to the general’s shoulders to return the favor, and the taller man dipped his head to deepen the kiss. Tongues venturing forward and brushing tenderly, both stood tangled in a tight embrace, belt buckles clinking against each other, boots creaking.

It was the admiral who broke the kiss after what felt like a sweet eternity and pulled away first, leaning onto Veers for support and resting his head in the crook of his neck; he was feeling light-headed, though pleasantly so. The groundpounder breathed almost as fast as he did but much more deeply, chest rising and falling under his chin.

“Skipper…” Veers whispered. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“What? Kissing me?”

“That too. I meant the moment you figured it out.”

Piett looked up at him, eyes widening.

“Why, you… you big, beautiful dirt-pounding berk, you could just have said it to my face!” he sputtered indignantly, flushing just a little redder, and reached up to remove the general’s cap, tossed it on the desk and buried a hand in his soft, still slightly damp hair. “N-not that I don’t appreciate your elaborate courting maneuvers - just your trademark shrewdness at work, really - but-”

He lost himself in Veers’ dark eyes, their gaze as gentle as a lover’s caress, patient, insightful.

“No matter” he breathed, “no matter… please kiss me.”

Piett almost winced at how desperate that request had sounded. Stars, he couldn’t possibly be _that_ needy, so starved of touch as to beg for it when he didn't have to at all - could he?

Strong arms tightened their grasp on his waist and provided support so he could comfortably stand on tiptoes and lean in for another kiss, mewling softly into Veers’ warm mouth. Pleasant shivers ran down his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The hand in Veers’ hair slid down and caressed the side of his face and then his neck.

Piett felt a rush of excitement as the kisses grew more fervent. His hands clutched fistfuls of synthwool, then let go and began roaming, mapping Veers’ upper body and its shapes and where it was relaxed and where muscles were coiled with the effort of holding him up. Fingers tugged impatiently at the flap of Veers’ tunic. He wanted to see him.

“ _Slow_ down there, sailor” the general drawled breathily, breaking their kiss. “We’ve got all the time we need.”

A whine of protest escaped Piett’s throat.

“I- I _want_ you.”

It came out terribly hoarsely and he shuddered with self-consciousness, though Veers only chuckled softly.

“Can’t argue with that” he replied, lowered the admiral back to his feet and arched slightly, offering his body to the touch. “Come on, unwrap your present. I want to be yours.”

Piett’s hands immediately tugged Veers’ tunic open, then moved lower to unbuckle his belt and simply let it drop to the floor, tearing off his own gloves before placing both hands on the groundpounder’s chest. While soft palms greedily cupped and fondled his solid pectorals through his tank top, Veers shrugged off his tunic, discarding it, and reached out to touch Piett’s sides and feel up his body with a little bit of pressure. There was softness under his hands with the occasional bony spot; a bit of a paunch, but nothing beyond what was considered a healthy figure.

Shivering with excitement as the groundpounder touched him with these large paws of his, Piett wetted his lips at the sight of those wide shoulders that were twin balls of thick, toned muscle nearly the size of his own head. He reached up and cupped their firmness, then touched Veers’ sinewy neck and let his hands follow his gaze downwards to that nicely-shaped pair of pectorals, which twitched briefly as their owner produced a warm chuckle.

“Sucker for fit bodies, are you?”

His response was to throw his arms around Veers’ stocky waist, bury his face in soft black fabric, hold on as if for dear life and deeply inhale the man’s scent - a pleasant combination of freshly laundered synthwool, standard-issue shower gel, light deodorant and just a hint of sweat. Piett felt his own arousal stir again as he hungrily took in the pleasant, almost intoxicating scent, and his hands slipped beneath the undershirt and snaked upwards almost on their own, fingers feeling up every scar and even the shallowest groove on the general’s well-toned back. He pressed his body to Veers’, finding his paunch squeezed against solid abs and the warm lump in his groin nestled beneath its larger counterpart.

Two calloused but incredibly gentle hands returned the favor by placing their pleasant weight on his slight shoulders, moving inward to rest on either side of his neck, then they came to caress his cheeks as Veers kissed him tenderly. Fingertips combed gently through the sparse hair above his ears, and Piett silently cursed his own tunic and undershirt, the need to take them off now overwhelming. Being so close to Veers was something he did not want to give up, though, and so the sailor stayed where he was, craning his neck to deepen the kiss, his tongue boldly venturing between the groundpounder’s warm lips.

Veers hummed into the kiss and held still to let Piett explore his mouth with that supple tongue. The admiral reluctantly pulled away after what felt like several minutes.

“How far do you want to go tonight?” Veers asked softly, a smile on his lips.

Piett looked up at him with nothing but want in his eyes.

“Kriff, dirtpounder, right now I’d go anywhere with you.”

The general’s smile only widened, and he leaned in for another kiss. His hands moved between their bodies to unbuckle Piett’s belt, toss it away and trail a path up to his shoulders, opening the clasp of his tunic while their lips were molten together.

Veers gently urged him to lower his arms so he could get rid of the tunic. The sailor complied readily without breaking the kiss and even had to restrain himself from tearing the garment apart; he settled for pushing it off his shoulders as soon as it was open and lifted his grey undershirt too. He slipped it off as soon as they had to part to catch their breath, and took a moment to remove his boots, eyeing Veers while he was at it.

The general’s cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of pink. His pupils were dilated and his breath was quick with arousal, his broad chest heaving. He threw a sheepish glance down at himself, then smiled broadly at Piett as he grasped the lower hem of his tank top with both hands and pulled it up and over his head. Off came the top with one fluid motion, revealing a sculpted torso to rival a Massassi warrior’s.

Piett blushed promptly at the sight, then a wave of self-consciousness washed over him. Damn it, this old soldier was a prime example of physical strength, and the pint-sized sailor before him was little more than a shapeless sack of skin, fat and bone next to a nigh-ideal Human body.

 _I really need to hit the jogging track_ , he thought, instinctively sucking in his pudgy gut.

He eased up a little, though, as leaning forward did some rather interesting things to Veers’ thick pectorals. Warm, calloused hands came to rest on his sides, fingers spread.

“Don’t try to fix what isn’t broken, sailor” the dirtpounder said softly, his cheeks still flushed pink. “You’re beautiful.”

“...Did I say that out loud?”

Veers hummed affirmatively.

“Yes, you did, and I do _not_ want you feeling bad about your body because of mine.”

Piett nodded weakly, reaching up to touch him. Veers’ chest was shaved bare, lightly tanned and just as chiseled as the rest of his body - and crisscrossed with scars. He moved his fingers lower to circle a rough crescent-shaped mark about the size of his own rank bars, below Veers’ left pec.

“Is that one… a bite mark?” he asked, his curiosity sparked.

“Yes, it is. From some rather unfriendly feline predator on a nameless dirtball. Must have been some kind of nexu” Veers responded without hesitation.

Piett kept his hand there and bent to place a kiss on the marred skin, noting the way the muscles bunched underneath as Veers inhaled sharply in response. He gently pressed a palm to the general’s flat stomach and dragged his lips downward, stopping below his navel and just above the waistband of his trousers. Eyeing the bulge lower down, Piett lifted his chin to throw a questioning look back up at Veers.

The response was a smile and a shake of the head.

“I’d rather have you up here where I can kiss you, sailor. And I had something else in mind.”

Piett briefly pressed his lips to the center of Veers’ groin before standing back up, leaving an upward trail of kisses on his body.

“Which would be?” he asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice, and grasped the general’s sides.

Veers smiled widely and blushed again, not unlike a teenage boy thinking about his crush.

“I’d prefer to do it on the bed…”

“Of course. Would you like to be on top too?”

Piett’s hands wandered downward and slowly opened Veers’ jodhpurs while he leaned in to let his lips ghost along that sharp jawline.

“Mmm… yes, unless you want to.”

He pushed down Veers’ trousers in response and did not pass up the opportunity to grope at his well-toned buttocks and _squeeze_ , earning a throaty growl. The dirtpounder tightened his grip on Piett’s waist to press their bodies together in a crushing embrace but quickly relented.

“...Sorry” he muttered sheepishly. “I don’t want to be rough with you. It’s just that no one’s touched my afterburners in a long while.”

“What a shame for such a nice pair” the sailor quipped, grinning. “Built up with plenty of marching, aye?”

“It’s the army. Marching is what we do.”

Piett’s hands slowly snaked back upward, making sure to squeeze the firm globes again before moving up and around to press his hands to Veers’ flat stomach. He craned his neck and leaned in for a kiss, which Veers gave him eagerly, tongues gently caressing each other.

The general pulled away after a moment, closed his arms around the sailor’s waist and easily picked him up with his great strength.

“Your arms are shaking” Piett noted a little hoarsely.

The general shot him an unamused look.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t watching me for the whole hour I spent up there on that rope.”

“I was only there for the second half, but it’s a fair point.”

He took his sweet time trotting to his bed with the admiral in his indeed slightly trembling arms before laying him down as gently as if placing royalty on their four-poster bed. Veers then took two steps backwards and discarded his jodhpurs, making Piett wet his lips at the sight of the long, strong legs that now lay bare, their corded muscles rippling smoothly with every movement. The blush on the sailor’s cheeks darkened even more as Veers puffed up his chest, lifted his arms and flexed them.

“Oh, stop it…” he mock-complained, only earning a both infuriating and arousing smirk.

“But you like it” Veers teased, shifting his stance to let the muscles of his torso bunch as well. “While we’re at it, how do you want me to make you see stars?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Mm… I’m not picky. I just want to show you Wild Space tonight. I’d prefer something that takes flexibility, though. And so would you, don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

“Just get over here and join me.”

Veers did as asked, coming to kneel between his legs, but not before swiftly pushing down his briefs and leaving them on the floor. Piett took a good look at the ‘lower-deck artillery’ already standing at attention, pulling a lopsided grin.

“Packing the heavy ordnance, I see. No wonder your bucketheads all excuse themselves to the gym when you do just so they might get to ogle you in the showers… or do they stick to guessing the size of the game to hunt with that thing?”

Veers was above him within a second, leaning in close.

“It’s good for blasting mouthy little admirals into Wild Space” he purred. “Speaking of which, have you made up your mind now on how you want it?”

Piett craned his neck to kiss the general again.

“I want you to wreck my rear-end like it’s a Rebel base” he said huskily, lifting one hand to trail three fingers down Veers’ cheek and neck.

His hand moved lower, running across Veers’ chest, stopping for a moment to caress one of his nipples, then pressed lightly into his firm abdomen yet again and came to rest on the clean-shaven skin just above the base of his flushed, hard length. He hesitated for a moment before closing his fingers firmly around the shaft and moving his hand up and down slowly.

Veers responded by producing a low grunt and rolling his hips into the touch. Piett smiled at how fluid the motions were, eyes raking over rippling muscles as he continued the gentle stroking. The general was graceful and strong even in the sack, it seemed.

“Max, do you want me to use my mouth on you?”

The answer was a soft, melodious moan that sounded very much like ‘yes’ and sent a shiver down the sailor’s spine. Veers shifted and rolled over so he lay on his back, sinking into the pillows with a hum of anticipation. He held Piett’s gaze lovingly as the admiral kissed one of his nipples and let his lips ghost downward on that powerful torso before leaning in closer.

Another moan escaped Veers at the sweet sensation of that warm, soft, supple tongue moving languidly along his shaft. When it caressed the sensitive tip, he gasped, and he melted into the sheets when Piett closed his lips around him and hollowed his cheeks. Three fingers gently squeezed him at the base before the sailor took him in deeper and began slowly bobbing his head up and down, complementing the motions with his hand.

“Ohh, Firmus…”

Veers felt like he was in heaven. Not only was the pint-sized admiral damn good at this, but the knowledge that the man he loved was giving him this sweet pleasure left him quivering and gasping after barely five minutes with a hand buried in Piett’s curly hair.

“Don’t stop…” Veers moaned. “Don’t worry, I’ll be up for a… second round…”

Piett hummed in acknowledgment, which produced light vibration that coaxed a small noise of bliss out of Veers. Polishing someone’s blaster usually wasn’t so thrilling for him, but he quite liked how Veers tasted, and the slight curve of that throbbing length made the tip tickle his palate as he sped up a little. Careful to suppress his gag reflex, Piett relaxed his throat and took him deeper and eventually to the root, his nose buried in the well-trimmed dark fuzz a little higher up.

Veers shivered and his hands clenched, clutching fistfuls of the bedsheets. He was distantly aware of a soft palm resting pressed against his tensed, rock-hard stomach. The hot shivers running up and down his back intensified when that hand began moving across his abdomen with gentle downward sweeping motions.

“F-Firmus… I’m coming” he gasped.

The general arched his back with a soft moan as Piett sped up even more and sucked harder. His climax was intense, washing over him like a strike of lightning, and made his abs tighten as he released copiously into Piett’s mouth. Eyes closed, the sailor bravely swallowed it all and did not move away until he had taken all that Veers could give.

Piet slowly pulled off, giving the tip a kiss before shifting to let his head rest on Veers’ stomach. A hand buried itself in his curly hair and gently stroked him behind the ears.

“Sailor, that was wonderful” Veers muttered. “You’re bloody good with that mouth of yours.”

Smiling, Piett moved up and caressed the general’s side, kissing his warm, slightly flushed neck. He ignored his own hard-on for now.

“Now to raise that flag again for the second round…”

“What did you have in mind?”

Piett only grinned and dipped his head again to bury his face in the center of Veers’ smoothly shaved chest. His hands slowly moved up and down on the sides of that powerful torso. He was whispering something nearly inaudible. Straining his ears and steadying his breathing, Veers lifted his head, then his eyes widened and his cheeks turned strawberry red again.

“Max… my Max, you are so beautiful…” Piett murmured. “Your eyes are like gleaming amber… your body, forged out of steel… elegant, yet so powerful…”

For emphasis, his hands pressed into the thick musculature of Veers’ core and his thumbs caressed the outlines of his toned abs. The latter tensed up under his touch with a sharp breath, and he enjoyed how solid the muscle felt.

“You’ve worked so hard for this gorgeous body” he purred, his voice turning velvety and low. “So many hours spent training, honing it to this perfection…”

A soft, stifled moan, a twitch of the pectorals and a warm little bit of pressure against his lower abdomen told Piett he was exactly on the right track. He could’ve guessed that praise was one of Veers’ buttons to hit, seeing how much he enjoyed being ogled and salivated over in the gym, the communal showers, even on the bridge and the HoloNet. The general ought to count himself lucky that Piett had a way with words.

“My Max…”

Soft palms roamed around, cupping the swells of muscle, caressing sinews and veins. Veers moaned again, and Piett lowered his hands, allowing his weight to press down on those strong hips as he gave Veers’ already hardening length a slow, languid lick.

“I want you inside me, Max. Show me your strength… make me yours” he pleaded softly, dipping his head to let his lips and tongue caress the flushed tip.

He then pulled away again, grinning as Veers shifted and pushed himself upright with a guttural grunt. Two seconds later, all of the general’s weight came crashing down on him, lips molten against his own. Piett mewled into the kiss and groped blindly at warm skin and hard muscle. When they parted to gasp for air, he found his hands cupping Veers’ firm buttocks, and amusingly, Veers’ hands had taken hold of his own backside too.

“You might want to ground your ship, sailor” he grunted, “because I’m going to give your stern a _good_ pounding.”

Piett gasped softly as strong hands gave his buttocks a squeeze, and he arched his back to hold his pelvis up.

“Yes, Max, please…”

“I’ll be back. Make yourself comfortable.”

He relaxed when Veers sat upright on his heels before shuffling off the bed, and moved to fluff up his pillow and fold his blankets to form a makeshift second pillow. The sailor figured he would likely need it, as Veers’ height might make some positions a little less than comfortable. He lay down on his back and watched Veers quickly head to the ‘fresher, then return after a few minutes.

“There’s supplies in the topmost drawer” Piett said, gesturing to the nightstand at his left side.

Nodding, Veers went to open said drawer and picked out a bottle of lube and two rubbers in different sizes, scrutinizing the larger one.

“How’d you guess my size?” he asked, an eyebrow arched. “Ogled me in the showers too, did you?”

Piett laughed softly.

“Yes, I have, once or twice” he admitted readily. “But even if I hadn’t, I suppose I do have an eye for guessing the size of a man’s ventral cannon.”

Veers only shook his head with a grin as he placed the supplies, save for the larger rubber, on top of the nightstand and knelt between Piett’s spread legs. He took his time with opening the packet and rolling the rubber on his flushed length.

“You know, I’ve never seen anyone reload as fast as you just did… not without help, that is. Let me guess, you knew I was going to ask you out and took some kind of aphrodisiac before coming here?” Piett questioned, gesturing to Veers’ stiff length, only earning a broader grin.

“No, no, nothing of that sort. You’re enough of an aphrodisiac for me” the groundpounder replied and winked.

The admiral felt a new rush of arousal when those strong arms grabbed his hips and lifted them effortlessly, one holding him up while the other slid the rolled-up blanket under his backside so his pelvis was slightly elevated. Veers then leaned over and picked up the lube, opening the bottle and pouring a good portion into his cupped palm before putting the bottle back. Piett took a deep breath as the general leaned forward and slid his hands under the sailor’s arse.

“Just say the word when it’s enough.”

When those warm, slick fingers gently parted his buttocks and found his sensitive entrance, Piett failed to suppress a moan. He leaned into Veers’ touch as a finger began massaging his entrance, followed by a second. The dirtpounder sure did know how to keep him hungering for the caress of his hands, even begging to be roughly pushed inside of and dominated, though Piett knew that wasn’t quite going to happen yet. Veers was being incredibly gentle with him, always careful not to hurt where it would be all too easy.

The two fingers moved in circles, applying just a bit of pressure. Piett made sure to relax, and soon just one finger dipped cautiously inside, working him open with a tenderness the admiral had never known he craved. He moaned softly as the finger went a little deeper and was even joined by a second.

“Everything all right?” Veers asked quietly.

“Yeah… kriff, you’re better at this than I expected…” Piett breathed, his cheeks flaming red.

Veers bent down to place a kiss on the sailor’s chest as he added more lube before slowly pushing deeper inside, inch by inch, until his fingers were buried up to the knuckles. He felt a firm nub under his fingertips and gently stroked it, earning a soft little noise from Piett.

“Ohh… _that’s_ the spot…” he moaned.

Veers continued and even slowly inserted a third finger.

“Your hands, Max… so much strength in them, yet you’re so gentle…”

Piett’s words were silenced by warm lips capturing his, and he mewled into the kiss, his spine arching as Veers’ fingers applied delicious pressure to his sensitive prostate. His hands clutched the general’s powerful shoulders, sliding down to squeeze those thick biceps. He loved every second of being able to touch him, of being pleasured by the calloused hands that could aim even the heaviest weapons with deadly precision and expertly operate a mighty AT-AT’s controls, the thin lips that had so often spoken up in his defense when he had been belittled and mocked.

“I… I think that’ll do” Piett muttered.

The fingers did not retreat yet, though, pushing just a little deeper to continue caressing his prostate tenderly.

“Ohh- _Max_ …”

The sailor felt his neglected length throb with sheer _need_ , every touch to his prostate sending hot jolts up his spine.

“Come on, soldier, just shag me silly…”

Catching his lips again, Veers slowed with his strokes and carefully pulled his fingers out. Piett whined softly at the feeling of emptiness, inhaling deeply in anticipation as the general wiped his hand on his own thigh, shifted and positioned himself so his rubber-covered tip rested against Piett’s entrance.

“Ready?“

“Ready.”

Veers began pushing inside slowly. Piett shuddered at the unique sensation of heat entering him smoothly, and he moaned out loud as that thick length stretched him wider. When the tip pressed against his prostate, he gasped and arched, hands clutching the groundpounder’s wide shoulders.

" _Max-_ “

The only response was a grunt.

“Unnh… you’re tight…”

“Not my fault you’re hung like a bantha, General!”

Chuckling softly, Veers waited for a moment to let him adjust before continuing, slowly sliding further inside. Piett’s moans filled the room and his hands clawed at hard muscle, holding on to the anchor in stormy waters. The delicious heat and pressure against that sensitive bundle of nerve endings deep inside him, the warmth and weight and sheer presence of Veers’ body - it all was nearly overwhelming. Hot pricks of pleasure shot up his spine as the general drew back and pushed back in, then settled into a slow rhythm.

Piett mewled Veers’ name between fleeting kisses. The almost elegant rolling of those strong hips alone made him shiver and clench around the throbbing hardness inside him.

“M-Max… more, please…”

Not even two minutes had passed, and he already could hardly get enough. Piett bucked his hips into the thrusts, helping Veers find that angle at which his curved length pushed deep enough to make the admiral see stars. When Veers let go of his hips and shifted his weight to quicken his pace a little, Piett lifted his legs to wrap them around the groundpounder’s thick waist. He was barely flexible enough to have his toes touch above the small of Veers’ back - something he would prefer to fix in the future. Now, though, it would do.

Piett moaned the general’s name again as a strong hand grasped his deeply flushed length and began pumping it with steady motions.

“Ah... Max-”

It occurred to him that he was enjoying an exceedingly rare privilege - feeling this man’s tremendous strength at work with the intent to please and to pleasure. He threw his head back, clinging to Veers’ body, his mind completely fogged with desire.

“Anything for you, Skipper” Veers purred, though his voice cracked ever so slightly.

Both were close, yet lasting longer than either had expected to. It was almost as if Veers’ impressive stamina was rubbing off on the sailor beneath him. Piett’s soft noises gradually grew in volume even after Veers had let go of his length to support his weight with both hands, and he was shaking like a leaf, fingers digging into the dips between coiled muscles on the general’s upper back. Breathless and gasping, he felt his heart pound twice as fast as the thrusts, which shook him to the core with the single-minded vigor behind them. Droplets of warm fluid steadily dripped from the slit of his tip, trickling down his shaft.

When Veers proceeded a rumbling, guttural snarl and quickened his pace, Piett’s toes curled and he arched to press his front against that rock-hard chest and stomach.

“I’m close…”

One of his hands moved back down to cup the general’s biceps again, while he lifted the other and grasped a handful of Veers’ soft hair. The response was a wave of tension washing over that powerful body in a cascade of rippling muscle, prompting him to move even faster, bringing the both of them ever closer to sweet release.

“I want to hear you say... my name again” he wheezed, his thrusts slowing just a bit for a moment. “Please, Skipper… _Firmus_ …”

Piett’s hands tightened. Veers was his world now, so close to him, _there_ for him, making him feel like the Goddess has blessed them both. Nothing else was on his mind but the power and the beauty behind the name he wanted to carve into his very soul, so that he would never forget.

“ _Maximilian…_ ”

Veers moaned wordlessly, a low, melodious sound as sweet to Piett’s ears as the eternal purr of his Fierce Lady. A tug at his hair made him dip his head and lavish the sailor’s throat with hot, messy, open-mouthed kisses, lips sucking hungrily on the flushed skin. He placed more of his raw strength into his thrusts, hammering every shred of composure out of Piett, who felt the pressure burn in his gut like the crimson blaze of his Lady’s stardrives.

“Take me, Max, take me!” he cried hoarsely.

Lips crashed down on his own, claiming him and his words, and heat glowing as bright as a thousand suns stole his mind away.

Stormy, looming dark clouds erupted in blinding light and radiant color. Blue, red, purple, orange, green, gold, silver, white. He was floating, then falling, falling deeper, yet rising higher. Unseeing eyes lit up with endless joy. Hands grasped at everything they could, hungry for touch. His body quivered, arched and tensed in ecstasy, mirroring the one above him. Time came to a halt for a precious, sacred moment, two hearts singing in tune like they were always meant to be.

When Piett resurfaced gradually from his truly mind-blowing climax, his and Veers’ bodies were pressed together as closely as they could be. He felt the general’s strong heartbeat pound against his chest and his hot breath on his cheek, wide back and shoulders rising and falling like a boat on ocean waves. His arm was draped over Veers’ and his other hand had sunk down to rest on the back of his neck. He did not mind the weight resting on top of him - it rather felt like a thick, heavy blanket keeping him warm and secure when he would otherwise be shivering in the cold solitude of deep space.

The admiral cracked his eyes open and gently ran his fingers through Veers’ damp hair. With a flutter of lashes, the groundpounder opened his eyes as well and lifted his head a little, looking at Piett with an unfocused gaze and pulling a broad, groggy smile. No words were needed yet. It was just the two of them in the warm daze after having shared their pleasure.

Piett pulled him down into a sloppy kiss. Tongues brushed and caressed and embraced each other tenderly, a wordless purr resonating from the depths of Veers’ chest. He shifted his weight and carefully pulled out, the sound turning into a groan.

“Something wrong?” Piett whispered.

Veers looked down, then back up with a grin and a breathless chuckle.

“I think I just came twice, you bloody miracle of a man.”

The admiral joined the soft laughter, the lingering blush on his cheeks reddening a little. He smiled when Veers kissed his neck before untangling himself and trying to stand up with his knees going weak the first few times he tried.

“What’s the matter? Did I turn Iron Max into jelly?” Piett teased, lifting his arms to cross them under his head.

“ _You_ try exercising your arse off for two hours straight, then having the greatest shag in years on the same evening” Veers snorted as he finally came to stand on slightly wobbly legs. “Hells, good luck trying to wake me up for duty call tomorrow.”

He made his way to the refresher, leaving the door open while he disposed of his used rubber and Piett settled more comfortably into the sheets with a content sigh, not minding the cooling splotches of white liquid on his stomach. Veers returned with a small towel.

“Seriously, though, Max, that was amazing” the sailor said while Veers gently wiped his front clean with the soft towel. “ _You’re_ amazing” he added in an even warmer tone.

Veers bent down to silence him with a kiss.

“You too, sailor” he purred before pulling away to toss the towel down the laundry chute, lying down on his side when he came back.

Piett shifted to pull the rolled-up blanket out from under him and unfolded it. Unhelpfully, Veers only snuggled up close to him, and so he just let it be to join the embrace instead.

“I love you, Firmus” the general said without any hint of hesitation. “I’ve felt that way for a long time. I never made any overt advances towards you, though, and even then, most of it went right over your head. I suppose that’s for the best, since we could have gotten in massive trouble back then. But now…”

Propping his head up on his elbow, he gave Piett a sly grin.

“...with my admiral, I’m willing to take the risk.”

The sailor both felt like kissing him and socking him in the jaw for that. He settled for placing his hand on Veers’ side and tracing the grooves of the serratus muscle below his armpit, marveling silently. There really was no place on his body that wasn’t trim and toned. Piett avoided looking him in the eyes for a moment, then gathered the courage for his next words and met Veers’ warm gaze.

“I love you too, Maximilian” he said. “I didn’t even realize it until I saw one of those rope tapes that are going around. I thought it was just a close friendship, but it turns out that I feel more deeply for you than… well, than I thought I did.”

Veers’ grin softened into a smile, eyes full of affection. He rolled over to lie on his back and wrapped an arm around the sailor's waist. Sighing, Piett shifted and snuggled into the welcoming embrace. He laid his head on top of Veers’ chest, burying his face in the cleft between the groundpounder’s toned pectorals, and closed his eyes. Listening to the steady heartbeat below, he felt sleepiness begin to fog his mind as large warm hands came to rest on his back and gently kneaded his flesh. A feather-light tingling ghosted up his spine as their lengths touched, and an idea, as shameless it was, crossed Piett’s mind.

“Max?”

“Mmm?”

“Can I wake you up with my mouth tomorrow?”

Soft laughter made that wide chest quake.

“Yes, Skipper, of course you can.”

The admiral reached down to pull the blanket over the two of them, settling comfortably on top of Veers’ much larger body. If the man was bothered by the weight on his chest and stomach, he did not show it. Piett pressed a kiss to the firm muscle under his chin, earning another warm chuckle.

“Ohh, I love you, sailor.”

“I love you too, Max.”

A hand tenderly ruffled his curly hair, stroking him behind his ear.

“Goodnight, Firmus. Do dream of me, will you?”

Piett smiled widely. He would never grow tired of that affectionate humor.

“After tonight, Max, I don’t think I’ll ever dream of anyone else. Goodnight, dirtpounder.”


End file.
